A Kiss for Julie. Бетти Нилс

bring you all back something really Dutch. Blotto too.’

      She had two days in which to get herself ready, which meant that each evening she was kept busy—washing her abundant hair, doing her nails, pressing the blouses, packing a case.

      ‘Put in a woolly,’ suggested her mother, peering over her shoulder. ‘Two—that nice leaf-brown cardigan you had for Christmas last year and the green sweater.’ She frowned. ‘You’re sure we can’t afford one of those suits?’

      ‘Positive. I’ll do very well with what I’ve got, and if Professor van der Driesma doesn’t approve that’s just too bad. Anyway, he won’t notice.’

      In this she was mistaken; his polite, uninterested glance as she opened the door to him on Saturday morning took in every small detail. He had to concede that although she looked businesslike she also looked feminine; with a lovely face such as hers she should be able to find herself an eligible husband...

      He gave her a ‘good morning,’ unsmiling, was charming to her mother when he was introduced, and smiled at Esme’s eager, ‘You’ll give Julie time to send some postcards, won’t you?’ He picked up Julie’s case and was brought to a halt by Esme. ‘Don’t you get tired of seeing all that blood? Isn’t it very messy?’

      Mrs Beckworth’s shocked ‘Esme’ was ignored.

      ‘Well, I’m only asking,’ said Esme.

      The professor put the case down. ‘There is almost no blood,’ he said apologetically. ‘Just small samples in small tubes and, more importantly, the condition of the patient—whether they’re pale or yellow or red in the face. How ill they feel, how they look.’

      Esme nodded. ‘I’m glad you explained. I’m going to be a doctor.’

      ‘I have no doubt you’ll do very well.’ He smiled his sudden charming smile. ‘We have to go, I’m afraid.’

      Julie bent to say goodbye to Blotto, kissed her mother and sister, and kissed Luscombe on his leathery cheek. ‘Take care of them, Luscombe.’

      ‘Leave ’em to me, Miss Julie; ‘ave a good time.’

      She got into the car; they were all so sure that she was going to enjoy herself but she had her doubts.

      The professor had nothing to say for some time; he crossed the river and sped down the motorway towards Dover. ‘You are comfortable?’ he wanted to know.

      ‘Yes, thank you. I don’t think one could be anything else in a car like this.’

      It was an observation which elicited no response from him. Was she going to spend four or five days in the company of a man who only addressed her when necessary? He addressed her now. ‘You’re very silent, Miss Beckworth.’

      She drew a steadying breath; all the same there was peevishness in her voice. ‘If you wished me to make conversation, Professor, I would have done my best.’

      He laughed. ‘I don’t think I have ever met anyone quite like you. You fly—how do you say it?—off the handle without notice. At least it adds interest to life. I like your young sister.’

      ‘Everyone likes her; she’s such a dear girl and she says what she thinks...’

      ‘It must run in the family!’ Before she could utter he went on, ‘She must miss her father.’

      ‘Yes, we all do. He was a very special person...’

      ‘You prefer not to talk about him?’ His voice was kind.

      ‘No. No, we talk about him a lot at home, but of course other people forget, or don’t like to mention his name in case we get upset.’

      ‘So—tell me something of him. Professor Smythe told me that he had a very large practice and his patients loved him.’

      ‘Oh, they did, and he loved his work...’ It was like a cork coming out of a bottle; she was in full flood, lost in happy reminiscences, and when she paused for breath the professor slipped in a quiet word or question and started her off again.

      She was surprised to see that they were slowing as the outskirts of Dover slipped past them. ‘I talk too much.’

      ‘No, indeed not, Miss Beckworth; I have found it most interesting to know more of your father. You have a knack of holding one’s interest.’

      She muttered a reply, wondering if he was being polite, and they didn’t speak much until he had driven the car on board the hovercraft and settled her in a seat. He took the seat beside her, ordered coffee and sandwiches, and with a word of excuse opened his briefcase and took out some papers.

      The coffee was excellent and she was hungry. When she had finished she said, ‘I’m going to tidy myself,’ in an unselfconscious manner.

      He matched it with a casual, ‘Yes, do that; once we land I don’t want to stop more than I have to.’

      He got up to let her pass and, squeezing past him, she reflected that it was like circumnavigating a large and very solid tree-trunk.

      Back in her seat once more, she looked out of the window and wondered how long it would take to drive to Leiden, which was to be their first stop.

      Shortly afterwards they landed. ‘We’ll stop for a sandwich presently,’ the professor assured her, stuffed her into the car and got in and drove off.

      ‘Bruges, Antwerp, cross into Holland at Breda and drive on to the Hague; Leiden is just beyond.’

      That, apparently, was as much as he intended to tell her. They were out of France and into Belgium before she saw the map in the pocket on the door. They were on a motorway, and such towns as they passed they skirted, but presently she started looking at signposts and traced their journey on the map. The professor was driving fast but, she had to admit, with a casual assurance which made her feel quite safe, although it prevented her from seeing anything much. But when they reached Bruges he slowed down and said, to surprise her, ‘This is a charming town; we’ll drive through it so that you get an idea of its beauty.’

      Which he did, obligingly pointing out anything of interest before rejoining the motorway once more. The traffic was heavy here and Antwerp, as they approached it, loomed across the horizon. Before they reached the city he turned off onto a ring road and rejoined the motorway to the north of the city. Obviously, she thought, he knew the way—well, of course he would since he went to and fro fairly frequently. A huge road sign informed her that they were forty-eight kilometres from Breda, and after some mental arithmetic she decided on thirty miles. At the rate they were going they would be there in less than half an hour.

      Which they were, still on the motorway skirting the town, driving on towards the Moerdijk Bridge and then on towards Rotterdam. Before they reached the bridge the professor stopped by a roadside café, parked the car and ushered her inside. It was a small place, its tables half-filled. ‘I’ll be at that table by the window,’ he told her; he nodded to a door beside the bar. ‘Through there, don’t be long—I’m hungry and I expect you are too.’

      She was famished, breakfast had been a meal taken in another world, tea and dinner were as yet uncertain. She was back within five minutes.

      ‘I’ve ordered for us both; I hope you’ll enjoy my choice. I’m having coffee but they’ll bring you tea—not quite as the English drink it, but at least it’s tea.’

      ‘Thank you, I’d love a cup. Are you making good time?’

      ‘Yes. I hope to be at Leiden around teatime. You have a room close to the hospital. I shall want you tomorrow in the afternoon. In the morning I have several people to see so you will have time to look around. You may find the morning service at St Pieterskerk; it’s a magnificent building.’

      ‘I don’t speak Dutch or understand it.’

      ‘You don’t need to—the service is similar to your own church, and if you need to ask the way practically